Feels Like the End
by SqueakyTheDuck
Summary: "You figure out what it is that defines a man; you take that away from him and he's not a man anymore." An act of cruelty from an old enemy leaves Neal severely hurt - in more ways than one. It's gonna take everything he's got to handle this one, and Peter is determined to help him through it.
1. A Bigger Game

**A/N: I got the idea for this story a few weeks ago. Wrote pretty much the whole thing in my head in the space of about two or three hours, and now I'm finally typing it up. Here's hoping it turns out as well as it did in my head. This takes place sometime during or after season four, and I'm basing that on the assumption that at some point in the fourth season, things will be returned to normal. The first chapter's not that long, because the beginning was the only part I had trouble coming up with. The rest will hopefully be more detailed.**

"Morning, Peter." Neal strolled into the conference room and flashed his customary smile at his partner.

"Neal." Peter acknowledged his CI without looking up from the file in his hand.

"Is that our latest case?" Neal laid aside his hat, ready to get down to business, and peered over Peter's shoulder at the file.

"Yep, and this is an interesting one." Peter flipped over a few pages to the suspect profile.

"Who's that guy?" Neal asked, pointing to the photo.

"Goes by the name of Mark Lettle." Peter said. "We're pretty sure that's an alias. He came onto our radar a few weeks ago. He's a suspect in a number of heists, kidnappings, and armed robberies, but we've haven't had enough evidence to bring him in. But word on the street is—" Peter met his consultant's eyes. "—he's lookin' for a forger."

"And that's where I come in." Neal said.

"That's where you come in." Peter confirmed. "You—or rather, Nick Halden—will meet with him this afternoon to discuss the job."

Neal grinned. "Sounds like fun."

* * *

"You guys get all that?" Neal entered the van that afternoon. The hated surveillance van actually felt welcoming after his hour spent with Lettle. Something about the guy didn't sit right with Neal.

"Every word." Peter lowered the headphones and turned to look at Neal. "We've got something solid to go on now."

"You want us to move in? Make the arrest?" Jones asked.

"Not yet." Peter shook his head cautiously. "I don't think Lettle's the kind of guy who could plan all of this. I wanna find out who he's workin' for. We take him now, we lose that chance. Stay on him, though. I wanna know what he's up to."

"You got it." Jones said.

"Neal?" Peter turned to his CI. "What'd you think?"

"Of Lettle?" Neal pursed his lips. "There's something off about him. You're right, he's definitely not the one pulling the strings, but this still doesn't feel like a cut-and-dry forging case."

Peter nodded. "That's the same feeling I'm getting. There's something wrong here. Lettle—or whoever he's working for—has got a bigger game going. My gut's tellin' me we need to be cautious. You're done for the day. You can go home."

Neal picked up his tracking anklet from the counter where he had left it and raised his eyebrows. Peter shook his head. "You're off anklet until this whole thing's over. But I want you calling every hour to check in."

"Every hour?" Neal repeated. "Isn't it supposed to be every two hours? What'd I do?"

"Nothing—that I know of." Peter replied. "I'm just being cautious."

"Gut feeling." Neal nodded his understanding.

"It's rarely wrong." Peter said.

"I know." Neal stood up and headed for the van's exit. "I'll talk to you in an hour." he called over his shoulder.

He emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight and looked around. A cab was coming down the street. He thought about hailing it, then decided to walk instead. The weather was nice today; and he needed to think.

He set off towards home, hands in his pockets, deep in thought. This whole thing was too convenient. _A small-time criminal comes out of nowhere and decides he needs something forged. He was way too eager to hire me. Of course I _am _the best in the business... _A smile played across Neal's lips, then disappeared as he remembered Peter's words: "_He's_ _got a bigger game going..."_

_Game._

Neal stopped dead in his tracks. "Mark Lettle is his front man." he said in a horrified whisper. "It's an anag—"

Something hard connected with the back of his head, and then his world went black.


	2. Suffer and Live

The first thing he was aware of was a throbbing ache in the back of his head. The second thing he was aware of was that he couldn't move.

As his mind began to focus, Neal remembered the cause of the first thing. The second thing was still a mystery to him. He blinked and opened his eyes, and almost immediately squeezed them shut again to block out the harsh glare of the bright light above him.

He forced his eyes open again and tried to turn his head to the side, but found it immobilized like the rest of his body. Squinting against the brightness, he flicked his gaze to the left, to the right, then down. He was on a cold metal table, held down by strong black straps—one around each leg, one over his middle, and one across his forehead. His arms were spread out away from his body; the straps were positioned on his forearms, closer to his elbows than his wrists—too far away for his hands to reach, which meant he couldn't pick the locks. He wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

Great. That explained the second thing.

A third thing came to his mind. _Where am I?_

"Bout time you came around, Caffrey." A sickeningly familiar voice sounded from somewhere near Neal's head. _I think I'm about to get my answer._

"Keller." Neal spat the name.

"Yeah, I'm impressed." His longtime adversary came into view, wearing the insolent smirk that seemed perpetually plastered to his face. "You figured out my anagram pretty quickly."

Neal shrugged as much as the restraints would allow him, which wasn't much. "Mark Lettle, Matt Keller, it wasn't hard. What do you want this time?"

"Well I'll make it short and simple." Keller said casually. "After all, I wouldn't want the Feds bustin' in here too soon. We only got half an hour before they decide to come lookin' for you when you don't call in."

Neal knew better than to ask how Keller knew about that. Keller had a strange knack for knowing things he shouldn't.

"I want revenge, Caffrey." Keller continued, casually pacing the length of the table and back. "You've caused me a lot of trouble, and I aim to repay that trouble."

"What are you gonna do?" Neal taunted. "You gonna kill me, Keller? The FBI will hunt you down if you do. If you kill me, Peter will _find_ you and he will personally put a bullet through your skull. And that's if Mozzie doesn't get to you first. Believe me, you'd be better off with the bullet."

"Y'know, that's touchin', Caffrey, you havin' so much faith in your friends." Keller leaned in close and stared into Neal's eyes. "But I'm not stupid."

"Coulda fooled me." Neal retorted.

Keller stood up straight again. "Don't get me wrong, of course, I thought about it. Killing you would bring me great pleasure."

"Likewise."

"But it's just not good enough." Keller turned away from him and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. "You die, that's the end of it. Sure, I could drag it out, make you suffer, but in the end you'd still be dead. It just wouldn't be satisfying enough to make you suffer and die."

He whirled around and leaned in close again. "I want to make you suffer and _live_."

Up to this point, Neal had been feeling a little scared. Now he was genuinely terrified. But he kept a careful mask of calm in place; he wasn't about to give Keller the satisfaction of knowing the dramatic scare tactics were actually working.

Keller's eyes fixed on his captive's face, waiting for a reaction. When he didn't get one, he gave a barely perceptible sneer of disappointment, then continued. "So I asked myself, 'What's the best way to make Neal Caffrey suffer?' Went through a lot of ideas, and believe me, I had some good ones. And then it hit me—I had to figure out what defines you. See that's the trick, Caffrey. You figure out what it is that defines a man; you take that away from him and he's not a man anymore. I know exactly what it is that defines _you_, and I know how to take it away from you."

He turned suddenly and called out, "Tommy!"

"Yeah?" Neal recognized the voice of the man he had met with less than an hour ago. A moment later he came into view. Medium length brown hair and a scraggly beard surrounded dark eyes and a surly-looking face.

"My front man, Tommy." Keller said with an air of introducing two people. "You know him as Mark Lettle. He's been doin' all the hands-on stuff that I couldn't do, bein' a wanted man and all. Helped me arrange this whole thing. He leaked word he needed a forger for a job, the Feds got wind of it, and took you off your leash so your cover wouldn't be blown." Keller took obvious pleasure in rehashing the steps he had taken to get Neal here. "Oh, and he's also the reason you're gonna have a nice bruise on the back of your head."

"Oh that was him, huh?" Neal grimaced.

Keller smirked. "Yeah but that's about to become the least'a your worries. Tommy, go get it."

Tommy nodded and disappeared again. Keller turned back to Neal.

"Sorry Caffrey," he pulled a strip of black cloth from his coat pocket and placed it over Neal's eyes, blindfolding him. "Much as I'd like for you to see this next part, I don't want you to know what's comin'. You might start strugglin' and make it a lot harder to do it right."

Neal heard footsteps coming towards them. "Got it." he heard the gruff voice again; Tommy was back with whatever it was that Keller had told him to bring. "You want me to do it?"

"No," Keller sounded delighted, which made Neal even more terrified. "Let me do it. You get ready to call 911 soon as we're outta the building."

"Huh?" Tommy sounded confused.

"We wouldn't want him bleedin' to death before the paramedics get here. That'd ruin everything."

Neal couldn't mask his fear any longer. He started shaking uncontrollably.

He could sense Keller's presence to his right. "Oh, Caffrey, I've been waitin' for this moment."

Neal braced himself. For a single moment that felt like an eternity, there was dead silence.

Suddenly everything was happening all at once...a sound like metal connecting with metal...something had hit the table...an overwhelming, sickening feeling swept over him...the blindfold was ripped off...the lights were blinding him once again as two sets of footsteps retreated...he heard a terrible, gut-wrenching, almost inhuman scream echoing through the empty room...it took a few seconds for his mind to register that the sound was coming from his own lips.

The world spun around him in a dizzying, surreal haze. He thought he heard sirens in the distance. He thought he felt pain...the reason for the screaming...but everything just felt...numb. Numb and painful at the same time, if it was possible. His breathing turned to rapid, frightened gasps...his eyes moved about wildly, then came to a stop when he looked to his right and the horrible realization of what Keller had done set in.

His right arm lay beside him on the table, blood pouring out of the place where it was supposed to be attached to his shoulder. But it wasn't. It wasn't attached.

Neal dimly heard the sirens getting closer as the world around him dissolved into a blur of pain and confusion.


	3. Praying or Swearing

Peter took a deep breath and released it slowly. He propped his elbows on the desk, rested his chin on his laced fingers, and stared at his cell phone. Any minute now it would vibrate, the screen would light up, and he would hear Neal's voice on the other end, cheerfully explaining why he was fifteen minutes late checking in.

The phone remained still, its screen dark.

The knot in Peter's stomach tightened. _Maybe I'm overreacting._

He was startled by a tap on the glass door. For split second he hoped it was Neal. But when he looked up, he saw the concerned faces of Jones and Diana instead. He sighed and motioned them into his office.

"He hasn't called yet?" Diana glanced at the phone.

"Not yet." Peter replied, apprehension visible on every feature. "Have you heard anything?"

The younger agents both shook their heads. "You worried?" Jones asked.

"It's not normal for Neal to be late," Peter stood up and turned to the window, running a hand through his hair anxiously. "He should've called me..." he checked his watch. "...sixteen minutes ago."

"I talked to June." Diana said. "She hasn't seen him since he left this morning."

"I'll call Mozzie," Peter said. He'd spare Jones and Diana the annoyance of talking to the conspiracy theorist. "If anyone might know where Neal is—"

"He doesn't." Diana said. "He's worried, too. Said he and Neal had plans for this afternoon."

"And now I _know _something's wrong." Peter grabbed his suit coat off the back of his chair and pulled it on. "Even on the off-chance that he would forget to call and check in with us, there's no way he would break off plans with Mozzie with no explanation. C'mon, we need to go find him."

Peter made for the door; he stopped at the threshold when a phone went off behind him. He turned around. It was Diana's.

"Hello?" she was silent for a few seconds, listening, her expression growing more and more concerned. "Mm-hm. Got it."

She hung up. "Boss, that was the dispatcher's office. They got an anonymous phone call about half an hour ago saying someone was hurt. The address they got was a warehouse on 9th."

Jones raised his eyebrows. "That's just a few blocks away from where Caffrey met with Lettle."

Diana pursed her lips. "The paramedics reported finding a man who fits Caffrey's description. The dispatcher wouldn't give me the details, but...I think Neal's hurt pretty badly. He's being taken to the hospital now."

The blood drained from Peter's face. "Let's go."

* * *

It was all Peter could do to keep his composure as they drove toward the hospital. He gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead as he skillfully wove the Taurus through the late afternoon traffic.

The hospital came into sight, and Peter's breath caught in his throat; just ahead, an ambulance sat parked in front of the entrance, lights flashing as the paramedics unloaded a stretcher and placed it on the gurney that had been rushed out to them. Peter caught a glimpse of his friend's unmistakable wavy black hair before doctors and nurses crowded around, obstructing his view.

He brought the car to a stop and threw it into park, not even bothering to shut the door as he got out and ran over to the scene. Jones and Diana followed close behind.

"Excuse me," Peter called out urgently. The crowd surrounding the gurney turned to look at him as he held up his badge. "I'm a federal agent. That man is my partner. Let me see him." They parted to let him through.

Peter's hand immediately went to his mouth in horrified shock as he got a clear view of his friend. Neal was barely conscious, his breath coming in labored gasps and agonized groans. Blood soaked through thick white bandages wrapped around his shoulder.

His right arm was gone.

Looking back on it, Peter never could figure out exactly how he got his feet to move in that stunned moment, but the next thing he knew, he was running alongside the gurney as it was rushed into the hospital. He frantically called his friend's name. "Neal! _Neal!_"

Neal looked up, his blue eyes glazed and panic-stricken. "Peter..."

"Who did this?" Peter's voice shook with barely contained rage. "Who did this to you, Neal?

"Keller." Neal gasped. "It was Keller."

Peter's dark eyes suddenly illuminated with a fiery, burning hatred. "I'm gonna _kill _that _son of a_—"

And then everything was happening in a blur. Peter heard things like, "losing blood fast" and "get an IV in him, now!", and then he was left standing in the hallway, staring after the team of medics as they wheeled the gurney through the wooden double doors marked "SURGERY". A nurse stood beside him, holding a clipboard. Vaguely, as if from the end of an echoing tunnel, he heard her asking questions about Neal. He answered automatically, mechanically, his eyes still riveted on the swinging doors his friend had just been taken through.

Then the nurse left him and there was silence.

"_Boss..._" Another echo. _"I called Elizabeth. She's on her way..."_

"Boss." A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of the haze. He turned around to find Jones and Diana standing next to him. His eyes met theirs, and he saw his own fear and shock reflected on their faces.

"C'mon," Jones said quietly. "Let's go to the waiting room."

Peter nodded numbly and led the way down the hall, where he sank down into one of the chairs and leaned forward, staring down at the clean white floor. He propped his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair, clenching his teeth as he squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, God." He muttered, unsure of whether he was praying or swearing.

Peter sat unmoving as the minutes ticked by. He wanted to cry, he _tried_ to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. All he felt was a deep, throbbing, numb ache in the pit of his stomach.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before the clicking of heels on the tile floor and a familiar, "Hon?" made him raise his head.

Peter stood up and took a few steps towards his wife. "What happened?" she asked anxiously. "Diana called me and said Neal was hurt. How bad is it?"

The sight of her finally broke the barrier, and his tears began to flow freely. "Oh, El!" Peter caught her in his arms as she came toward him and held her tightly.

Surprised by the reaction and suddenly terrified for Neal, Elizabeth returned Peter's embrace and asked in a gentle, quavering voice, "Honey, what happened?"

"It was Keller." Peter was barely able to gasp the name.

He felt Elizabeth stiffen in his arms. "What did he do to Neal?" she breathed, afraid to know the answer.

"He—" Peter tried to choke out an answer. "He—" The words wouldn't come. They were too horrifying to say out loud. He motioned for Jones and Diana, who had been hanging back, to come over to them.

"You want me to—?" Diana asked hesitantly. Peter managed a nod.

Diana lightly touched Elizabeth's shoulder. "Elizabeth...Keller cut Neal's arm off."

Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath and pressed herself harder against Peter's chest. His own grip tightened on her as she buried her face in his shoulder and shook with uncontrollable sobs. He laid his cheek against the top of her head, his own tears running down into her dark hair.

They stood there, clinging to each other for what seemed like an eternity, both too shocked to move or speak. Finally Elizabeth raised her head and drew back a bit, her red-rimmed eyes meeting his as she whispered, "Peter, is he gonna be all right?"

"I don't know, El." Peter stroked one hand through her silky hair and traced his fingers down to caress her face. Then he pulled her close again and closed his eyes. "I don't know."


	4. You Are Not Alone

**A/N: All right, here's chapter 4! Special shout-out to Great Red Dragon for giving me information about severed limbs. I probably would've really screwed those details up if I'd just tried to guess.**

* * *

Peter checked his watch for what must have been the thousandth time. It was almost nine o'clock. They had been sitting in the waiting room all evening, with no word on Neal's condition.

Peter looked around the room. Jones and Diana had just returned to the hospital a few minutes ago, after spending most of the evening spearheading the massive manhunt for Keller. Now they were standing by the coffee pot, talking quietly. From the snatches of conversation he caught, he gathered that they were trading stories about Neal's past antics. Occasionally one of them would manage the briefest smile. He even saw them laugh once or twice. Yeah, definitely talking about Neal. Peter thought maybe he should get up and go join them. The stories and the camaraderie would be a good way to pass the time. Somehow he couldn't make himself move from his seat.

Elizabeth sat beside him, her fingers intertwined with his. She had been his anchor since the moment she arrived. It was her presence that kept him from falling into total despair as the hours dragged on. He drew his strength from her, and she didn't even realize it. That was the most beautiful thing about his wife, Peter thought lovingly—she had no idea how amazing she was.

Mozzie was here now. Elizabeth had called him on her way to the hospital, and he arrived fifteen minutes after she did. Upon learning what had happened, Mozzie had exploded into an outburst of profanity and threats aimed at Keller, the likes of which Peter had never heard from him before. He had gotten so worked up that the hospital staff threatened to make him leave, but Elizabeth had intervened and gently led Mozzie over to the waiting area, where she talked to him until he calmed down. Now he was sitting a few chairs over from them, shuffling in his seat nervously. A few times he got up and paced the length of the room, as if looking for a distraction. Unable to find one, he sat down again with a sigh. For all Mozzie's faults, Peter thought, his loyalty to Neal was admirable.

It occurred to him that Neal was probably the most important person in Mozzie's life. The two con men were more than just partners in crime; they were each other's trusted confidants. Mozzie knew things about Neal that even Peter didn't know.

"Peter Burke?" All heads turned in the direction of the voice. A youngish, brown-haired doctor had emerged through the swinging double doors and was walking towards them. His mint green scrubs were stained with dark red splotches of blood. "I'm Dr. Dane Brillo. I've been treating Mr. Caffrey."

Peter and Elizabeth stood up. They sensed the other three step up behind them. "How is he?" Peter asked, a tremor in his voice betraying his calm expression.

"Well the good news is he's going to make it." Dr. Brillo began.

"Oh thank God." Peter breathed a sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping as he felt the tension in the room begin to dissipate.

"We were able to stop the bleeding and replace most of the blood he lost." Dr. Brillo said. "He's pretty weak right now, but he's stable."

"Is there...bad news?" Elizabeth asked hesitantly.

Dr. Brillo pursed his lips and looked around at the five people in front of him. "The person who did this to him—do you know who it was?"

"Matthew Keller." Mozzie's fists clenched as he spat the hated name with murderous venom. It was the first time he had spoken in hours.

Dr. Brillo's eyebrows went up in surprise. "I've heard of him. I didn't realize he was connected to this case. Well, he knew what he was doing. He used a long, sharp knife to amputate Neal's arm. It was a very clean cut; he severed the arm exactly halfway between the shoulder and the elbow. But he didn't sterilize the blade. The police have confiscated it as evidence, but the paramedics informed us that the knife had quite a lot of dirt on it when they found it."

"So whatever was on that knife made its way into Neal's bloodstream?" Peter asked.

Dr. Brillo nodded again. "Yes, and it spread fast. We've already found traces of an infection. We can't even attempt to reattach his arm until we get that infection cleared up."

"How long will that take?" Peter asked.

"With the right antibiotics, a few days. A week at the most." Dr. Brillo said. He grimaced. "But that's the problem. Severed limbs are tricky. With a finger—a hand even—we've got some breathing room. But with a whole arm, the tissue starts to deteriorate a lot faster. It needs to be reattached within twelve hours. We can't freeze it—frostbite would set in too quickly."

"You're telling us this is permanent?" Mozzie sounded like he was on the verge of becoming riled up again. "That he's gonna have to live with this?"

"Possibly," Dr. Brillo continued, holding up a hand to forestall further interruptions. "But he's got a chance. There's a facility upstate—St. Francis Hospital—they've been experimenting with a new preservation technique. Up to this point it hasn't been tested on anything bigger than a hand, but the results in that case were very promising. We've sent the severed arm to them with instructions to put it into immediate preservation. As soon as his infection has cleared up, Neal will be transported to St. Francis for reattachment surgery."

"What are the chances that it'll work?" Peter felt Elizabeth's grip on his hand tighten as he voiced the question.

Brillo shook his head. "It's really hard to tell at this point. I'd estimate a thirty- to fifty-percent chance that the operation will be successful. And even then, the chances of him recovering full motor functions in that arm are slim. I wouldn't even mention it to him just yet. We don't want to get his hopes up."

Peter took a deep breath, then nodded grimly. "Where's Neal now? Can we see him?"

"We've got him in a private room on the fourth floor." Brillo replied. "I'll take you up there. This way."

They followed him to the elevator. The ride up was a silent one. In a few minutes they had reached the fourth floor. Brillo led them down the hall and stopped in front of room 418. "He's in here. But—" he added. "I really shouldn't be letting anyone in to see him just yet. We've got him on some pretty strong painkillers, so he's bound to be a little disoriented. I'd prefer if only one of you went in for right now. There's a coffee lounge down the hall, if the rest of you would like to wait there."

Diana exchanged a quick glance with Jones, who nodded. Then she turned to Peter. "We need to get back to the office. Agent Westley was working on a lead when we left."

Peter nodded. "Thank you, both of you, for everything. If anyone can find Keller, it's you two. Keep me posted."

"We will." Jones assured him as the two younger agents headed back down the hall towards the elevator.

Peter turned to Mozzie and motioned towards the door. Mozzie shook his head and took a step back. "I think...he needs to see you right now, Peter."

Peter looked surprised for a moment, then he gave Mozzie a grateful smile and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. As Mozzie and Elizabeth followed Dr. Brillo down the hall to the lounge, Peter quietly pushed open the door and peered inside.

The room was dim, lit only by a lamp on the bedside table. Lying in the bed was a very pale Neal. EKG leads attached to his bare chest sent signals to the heart monitor on the other side of the bed, which registered his heart rate with a quiet, steady, beeping rhythm. Bandages were wrapped around what remained of his right arm.

Neal turned his head to the door when he heard it open. "Peter?"

"Hi, Neal." Peter whispered, entering the room. He approached the bed and gave Neal a gentle smile. "How you feelin'?"

"Mm, not so good." Neal croaked.

"You in pain?" Peter asked him.

"Not...not really." Neal mumbled. "I just feel...I don't know." His eyes snapped into focus, and he raised his head, suddenly more alert. "Peter I need to...I need to tell you who did this."

"It was Keller." Peter said. "I know. You told me."

Neal looked confused. "I did?"

Peter nodded. "I was here when the ambulance brought you in this afternoon. You told me then."

Neal blinked. "I don't...remember."

"You were barely conscious." Peter said. "But you did tell me. And we've got every available agent out there combing the streets for him right now."

Neal laid his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes. "You won't find him."

"We won't _stop_ until we find him." Peter's voice was firm. "Why did he do this to you, Neal?"

"You mean why didn't he just kill me, if he hates me so much?" Neal tried to snort, but the nasal cannula made it a bit difficult. "He said suffering and dying wasn't good enough. He told me he wanted me to suffer and live. Said that...if you take away the thing that defines a man...then he won't be a man anymore."

Neal looked up at his friend. "My art is what defines me, Peter. And Keller knew how to take that away from me."

Peter drew in a breath, released it slowly. Then he glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. "Dr. Brillo said I shouldn't tell you this yet, Neal. But there's a very slight possibility that they may be able to reattach your arm."

Neal's eyes lit up. "There is?"

Peter nodded. "The wound is infected. That's why they couldn't do the reattachment surgery right away."

"They told me that part." Neal said.

"Well, Dr. Brillo told us that there may be a way to save your arm." Peter briefly explained everything Brillo had told them a few minutes earlier. "As soon as the infection is gone, they'll take you to St. Francis for the surgery. They're gonna do everything they can to make sure it works. And if it does, you'll have your arm back." he concluded with a smile.

"And what if it doesn't?" Neal asked quietly.

Peter sobered. "Then we're gonna do everything _we _can to help you through this. But that's—" Neal turned his head away and stared at the opposite wall. "—Hey, look at me." Peter put a hand to Neal's cheek and gently turned the younger man back to face him. "That's what I _need _you to remember, in all of this—you are _not alone._"

Neal gave a desperate, frustrated sigh. "Without my arm, I can't draw...I can't paint..." With his remaining hand, he caught Peter's wrist in a frantic grip. "Peter, I can't _paint._"

Peter reached up to smooth his friend's hair, and Neal relaxed his grip. He stared up at his partner with frightened blue eyes that had never looked more childlike. "Peter, I'm _scared._" he whispered.

"I know." Peter said softly. "I know."

Neal shook his head. "You don't."

Peter drew back and stood up straight. For several moments he was silent. "You're right." He said finally, nodding his head. "You're right, I don't. I can't even _begin _to imagine what you're going through right now. But getting yourself worked up like this won't help you. The best thing you can do right now is rest. Let the antibiotics do their job." he indicated the bags of IV fluid hanging on the metal pole near the bed. "Try to get some sleep."

Neal's eyes began to drift closed. He forced them open again and looked up at Peter. "Will you be here when I wake up?"

Peter looked around the room for the chair he had noticed when he came in. Spotting it against the wall to his right, he went over and got it and pulled it up next to the bed. "I'll stay with you all night if you want me to."

Neal nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"All right." Peter said. "I'm gonna go talk to El and Mozzie in a few minutes. They'll wanna know how you're doing. Then I'll be back."

"They're here?" Neal mumbled. The pain medication was beginning to take effect, and he was finding it increasingly hard to keep his eyes open now that the idea of sleep had entered his mind. "Where are they?"

"They're waiting in a coffee lounge down the hall." Peter said. "Dr. Brillo would only let one of us come in to see you."

"Well, tell them hi for me, will you?" Neal said drowsily.

"I'll do that." Peter smiled. "Now go to sleep."

Neal gave up resisting and finally succumbed to the exhaustion overtaking him. His eyes drifted shut, and within moments he was sound asleep.


	5. Keep Me Talking

**A/N: This may be the last update for a while, because all of my ****free time ****and ****creative energy in the month of November is going to be focused on NaNo.**

**Also, I wrote a lot of this chapter while listening to the Simple Plan song, Untitled. So I'd recommend listening to it while you read this.**

* * *

The fourth floor coffee lounge was a small room at the end of the hallway. Its walls were painted a muted shade of mustard yellow. Not at all the kind of color to inspire hopefulness in anxious friends and family members sent there to wait.

Elizabeth and Mozzie sat beside each other in the burnt orange chairs, not speaking a word. The only sounds in the room came from the trickling of the coffee pot as it brewed more coffee—although their own steaming mugs remained untouched on the table in front of them—and the hum of a small refrigerator that stood, white and cold and stolid, next to the counter.

Mozzie's hand trembled as he reached for his coffee. The blue ceramic mug shook the moment he raised it off the table, sloshing the dark liquid inside. He set it down again and folded his hands in his lap. Elizabeth rested a sympathetic hand on his forearm.

A few minutes later, Peter walked into the room with a weary sigh. They both stood up.

"How's Neal?" Mozzie asked immediately; at the same moment Elizabeth said, "How is he?"

"He's asleep now." Peter said. The door swung quietly shut behind him as he walked over the join them. "I've never seen him this scared before. It's a rough road ahead for him."

"What can we do to help?" Elizabeth asked.

Peter drew her to his side and kissed her on the top of the head. "Just...be there for him. That's all we _can _do."

He looked over at Mozzie. The smaller man was standing still, fists clenched by his sides, eyes riveted to the floor, a storm of emotions flickering across his face in rapid succession. His whole posture was tense; it was almost imperceptible, but Peter could see him shaking with barely contained rage.

Peter reached out hand and touched him on the arm. "Mozzie..." His voice was gentle, but it carried a hint of command that even the rebellious conspiracy theorist knew not to ignore. Mozzie looked up at him.

"I don't want you getting any ideas about revenge. I want to take Keller down just as much as you do, but we have to do it the right way."

"The right way?" Mozzie scoffed. "Since when has your 'right way' ever worked with Keller? It's the reason he's still out there!"

"Mozzie," Peter's tone hardened. "Do not make me put you under house arrest. Because you know I will do it. I'd rather have you on our side. We need you to talk to your street contacts. Tell them the FBI is willing to pay a very high price for Keller."

"Once the criminal underworld finds out what he did to Neal, Keller doesn't stand a chance." Mozzie pointed out. "He's gonna get exactly what's coming to him."

"Make it worth their while." Peter said. "Tell them he's only worth something to the FBI if he's alive."

"They'll never go for that." Mozzie said.

"Mozzie, believe me, I'd much rather see Keller brought to us in a body bag than in handcuffs." Peter told him. "But that's not how we operate."

Mozzie scoffed again.

"That's it," Peter shook his head. "I can't trust you to do this. I'll get the word out some other way. You don't leave this building."

Mozzie opened his mouth to protest. "No," Peter held up a hand. "I don't wanna hear it. I'm being fair. Normally I would have you taken to an FBI safehouse and put under guard. I'm letting you stay here so you can visit Neal. But you are not to leave this hospital until we have Keller in custody."

Mozzie drew in a sharp, shaking breath. He released it slowly and nodded his understanding.

Satisfied with the response, Peter turned back to Elizabeth. "I told Neal I would stay with him tonight."

"You want me to stay, too?" she asked.

Peter gave her a tired smile. "No, you go on home and get some rest. I'll be fine here."

Elizabeth nodded and kissed him. "Bye, hon." She turned and walked out the door, giving Mozzie a gentle squeeze on the shoulder as she passed him.

"I'm gonna go sit with Neal." Peter told Mozzie. "I'll let Dr. Brillo know you're gonna be camping out here for a while."

"All right." Mozzie said, his tone more demure than Peter expected. "Just...will you let me know when Neal wakes up? I wanna see him."

"I will." Peter assured him.

* * *

_He couldn't move. He couldn't see. Neal struggled against the restraints holding him down as menacing laughter echoed all around him. He knew what was coming._

_He tried to call for help, but no sound came out of his mouth._

_There was a swishing sound as the blade came down. Pain seared through his arm—_

He bolted upright in the bed with a scream. Breathing fast, he looked around at the whitewashed walls in panicked confusion.

And suddenly Mozzie was at his side, gripping his shoulders and telling him to calm down, that it was just a nightmare.

"It wasn't." Neal gasped, looking down at the bandages where his right arm used to be. "It was real, Mozzie." He stared into his friend's eyes. "It was real."

"Lay back down." Mozzie instructed quietly. Neal did as he was told, his sweat-drenched hair dampening the pillows behind him.

He looked at the clock on the wall. 9:15. He could have sworn it said 9:00 when he was talking to Peter earlier. Had it really only been fifteen minutes?

"Where's Peter?" he mumbled. "He said he would stay with me all night."

"He _did._" Mozzie assured him. "That was two nights ago."

Neal looked at the clock again. It made more sense this time.

He turned his head when he heard the door open. A man in a guard's uniform was looking in. "Everything all right in here?"

Mozzie twisted himself around in the chair to face the door. "Yeah. He had a nightmare."

The guard nodded and wordlessly shut the door.

"Who's your friend?" Neal asked.

Mozzie settled back down into the chair with a scowl. "The Suit put me under house arrest and assigned me a babysitter."

"House arrest?" Neal tried to get his muddled mind to focus. The pain medication made it hard. "But...you're here."

Mozzie nodded. "Peter said I'm not allowed to leave the building."

"Nice of him." Neal grinned sleepily and his speech slurred a little. "That way you don't have to...sneak out to come see me. See Mozzie? Peter's not...completely soulless."

Mozzie tried to suppress a smile and pointed to the IV bag. "That stuff they're pumping into you is messing with your mind. Go back to sleep, Neal."

"No." Neal's smile vanished and his eyes widened in fear.

"Neal—" Mozzie began patiently.

"No." Neal repeated, shaking his head. "No, I can't. I don't wanna go through it again, Moz."

Mozzie closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. They had been through this once before, just after Kate died. Neal had been put back in prison for two months while it was investigated. During that time Mozzie paid one of the prison guards to keep an eye on him. If the guard's report to him was anything to go by, Neal had completely shut down emotionally while he was locked up.

It wasn't until he was released and got back to normal life that the nightmares had started. Then, as now, he would wake up screaming and refuse to go back to sleep for fear of having to relive the horrible moment over again in his dreams.

Mozzie remembered many long nights sitting up with him at June's place. Before long he began to discover ways to make Neal get the rest he needed. A sedative slipped into a glass of wine. A certain piece of music played in just the right key.

But as there was neither wine nor music to be had here, Mozzie found himself at a loss. He could try reasoning, point out that the more rest Neal got, the quicker his infection would clear up so the doctors could reattach his arm.

One look into his friend's panic-stricken eyes, and he knew reason would get him nowhere.

"All right." he said softly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just help me stay awake." Neal pleaded. "Keep me talking, Mozzie."

Mozzie nodded. And for the rest of the night, he did just that.


	6. Butterflies Doing Backflips

**A/N: Right, NaNoWriMo is done (I did it! 50,000 words!), the holidays are over, and I've got a few days before the new semester starts. Time to get back to this story.**

* * *

After the first nightmare, Mozzie got Dr. Brillo to increase the dosage on Neal's sedatives. So far the bad dreams hadn't returned, and Neal was able to sleep peacefully for the better part of the next few days.

Peter divided most of his time between the Bureau and the hospital, tracking down leads all day and coming to see Neal at night. Each night, Peter would come into the room, sit in the chair beside the bed, and tell Neal everything about the day. The increased medication meant Neal was sound asleep through most of it, but Peter talked to him anyway. It was just as much for his own benefit as it was for Neal's. It helped him get all of the day's frustrations out of his system.

Tonight he walked into the room and sank down into the chair wearily.

"Hi Neal," he said quietly. "I'm glad to see you're sleeping well, no more nightmares. Y'know, this place has practically been a revolving door these last few days? Yeah, I don't think Dr. Brillo's too happy about that, but you've been too out of it to notice. Everyone's been here to see you: El, Mozzie, June, Diana, Jones...Westley even dropped by. Heck, even _Hughes _came and sat with you for an hour or two yesterday. Everybody's worried sick about you, Neal. It's like the whole Bureau's on overtime until we find Keller. It's not just White Collar, either. We've got agents from almost every division helping out on this. Good thing, too; we need all the help we can get. Keller's gone completely to ground. We thought we had a lead on him today, but..." he sighed and rubbed his temples. "...ah, it was just another dead end."

He sat silent for several long moments and watched the steady rise and fall of his friend's chest, listening to the beeping of the monitor as it registered each heartbeat with precision. His eyes were drawn to the heavy bandages around Neal's right shoulder, and rage began to boil up inside of him, as it did every time he came here and sat in this chair and was forced to see his closest friend in this state.

When he finally spoke again, his voice shook. "Neal, I'm angry. I'm angrier than I've been in a _long_ time. And I'm scared of what I might do to Keller when we finally catch him." He laughed mirthlessly. "You shoulda seen me in the coffee lounge the other night, lecturing Mozzie about how 'we don't do revenge, we've gotta do this the right way, due process of law' and all that crap. But the truth is, Neal, I want the exact same thing Mozzie wants—I want to make Keller _pay_ for what he's done. I wanna see him suffer. I want there to be blood, and screaming, and—oh _geez _Neal, listen to me! So much for 'straight-laced, by-the-book Peter Burke,' huh?"

Peter drew in another shaking breath and tried to calm himself. "Neal...I can't imagine my life without you. You've done so much good and you've touched so many lives. I don't think you really _get_ how important you are to all of us. You...you're the closest thing to a son I've ever had. You may be the closest thing to a son that I'll _ever _have. You probably think I'm not interested in having kids. I know it's not something I ever talk about. Truth is, El and I have tried off and on for the last ten years to have kids, but...I don't think we can."

He shook his head. "I don't know why I'm telling _you_ this. Anyway Neal, I guess what I'm trying to say is...I wanna help you through this. In whatever way I can. And I'm rambling now. I've _been_ rambling, every time I've come here. I don't guess you mind."

Neal stirred, and his eyelids fluttered open. "Hey, Peter. Any luck finding Keller?"

"We've got agents working round the clock," Peter said, and he wondered if Neal had heard any of what he'd just been saying. "Still no leads. Every time we think we've got something—"

"—he's already three steps ahead of you." Neal finished.

"More like ten." Peter said.

"That's Keller for you." Neal said grimly.

The door opened behind him, and Peter turned around to see Dr. Brillo enter the room with a smile.

"Looks like the two of you could use some good news." Brillo said, noticing their discouraged expressions.

"We could." Peter agreed. "Do you _have_ some good news for us?"

"I do." Brillo nodded. "Our latest blood test shows that Neal's infection has almost completely cleared up."

Neal's eyes brightened. "That means you can do the surgery now?"

Dr. Brillo nodded. "We just sent word to St. Francis Hospital. You'll be airlifted there first thing tomorrow morning and taken to surgery immediately. You'll have one of the best neurosurgeons in the world performing the operation."

Peter and Neal exchanged surprised glances, and Peter asked, "Who?"

"Dr. Fadil Rehema." Brillo replied. "He's flying in from Egypt as we speak."

"Egypt? Wow." Peter gave an impressed whistle. "How'd he get wind of Neal's case?"

"That's the strange thing." Brillo said. "Dr. Rehema phoned this morning and told me he'd received an anonymous e-mail; someone offered to pay all of his expenses if he would agree to come to New York and perform a simple reattachment surgery."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Simple?"

"His phrasing, not mine." Dr. Brillo explained. "To a man of his caliber, reattachment surgery is child's-play. With Dr. Rehema wielding the scalpel, the chances of this surgery being successful go from thirty percent to...oh, I'd say about sixty or seventy percent."

It took every bit of self-restraint Peter could muster to keep from jumping out of his chair and whooping for joy. Instead he looked at Neal with a grin and said, "How 'bout that, Neal? Looks like you're gonna be in good hands tomorrow."

"The best." Neal's grin was equally wide. "Peter, in 24 hours I could have my arm back."

"There's still—" Dr. Brillo started to say. _There's still a pretty big margin for error, of course. There's every chance it won't be a success. _He stopped himself, and let his partial sentence go unnoticed in the midst of Neal and Peter's excited discussion. Professionally speaking, it wasn't a good idea to let them get their hopes up. They ought to know all the facts.

But Brillo knew that they _did_ know all the facts. He had explained them enough times already. With a small smile, he quietly slipped out of the room.

"Neal, this is great." Peter's face glowed as he pulled his phone from his pocket. "I'm gonna go call El."

He stepped out into the hallway, passing Mozzie in the doorway as the con man entered the room.

"Moz, did you hear?" Neal asked as his friend sat down.

Mozzie nodded. "I _did_. Dr. Brillo just informed me of your good fortune."

"Yeah, speakin' of good fortunes, I wonder how that anonymous e-mailer got the money to pay all of Dr. Rehema's expenses for his trip here..." Neal raised his eyebrows and let the sentence hang in midair.

Mozzie brushed it aside with a casual wave of his hand. "That...particular sum of money merely scratches the surface of our _own_ vast wealth."

"I'm glad to know you won't miss it much." Neal said.

Mozzie sat up straight and sniffed with a surreptitious air. "I have...no idea what you're talking about."

"Moz." Neal smiled. "Thanks."

"Anything for you, Neal." In truth, Mozzie would have gladly parted with the entire treasure if he thought it would guarantee his best friend's full recovery.

Peter came back into the room, still grinning. "El's ecstatic. She's heard of Dr. Rehema; she says that he's very, _very_ good."

"Good?" Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "Calling Fadil Rehema _good _is like calling the Mona Lisa a finger painting. The guy's a _legend._ He's known as the Miracle Man of the Middle East."

Peter gave him a quizzical look. "How do you know so much about an Egyptian neurosurgeon?"

Mozzie shrugged innocently. "My knowledge of people is not merely limited to the criminal underworld, Suit."

"Uh-huh..." Peter sounded unconvinced.

"Well," Mozzie made for the door. "I'll leave you two to talk about...whatever it is you talk about when I'm not around." He stopped at the threshold and turned around. "Ah, Suit. About my house arrest..."

"You go where Neal goes." Peter assured him. "You'll be going with us to St. Francis tomorrow."

Unable to bring himself to say the words "thank you" in regards to house arrest, Mozzie let his gratefulness register on his face, giving Peter an appreciative smile before turning and leaving the room.

Peter sat down. "You excited? Scared?"

"Both." Neal replied.

"Yeah, me too." Peter gave a nervous laugh. "I've got butterflies doing backflips in my stomach right now. I can't imagine how you're feeling."

"My butterflies are part of an acrobatic troupe." Neal said.

"Think you can calm down enough to go back to sleep?" Peter asked him.

"I hope so," Neal said. "I don't wanna lay awake all night worrying about tomorrow."

Peter stood up. "I'm gonna head home. El and I will be back up here first thing tomorrow morning. You try to rest some more."

"All right." Neal smiled and closed his eyes. "Night, Peter."

"Goodnight, Neal." Peter returned the smile as he left the room.


End file.
